


Death of Me

by WeWatchTheBees



Series: Same Soul [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Climate Change is real, F/M, Gen, No Beta, Psychology, RA9 shiiiiiiiiit, Slow Romance, We Die Like Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWatchTheBees/pseuds/WeWatchTheBees
Summary: The edge of the human empire. A psychology degree. A badge. An android and a mystery to be solved.
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader, Gavin Reed & Reader, Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: Same Soul [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825384
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted about 7 chapters of this story previously and under a different name. I pulled it down and took time to retool it, because shit got wild up in here *taps forehead with vigor* and out there *points outside window.*
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story.

When you were young your mother used to tell you stories about how rain beating against a rooftop was considered a calming sound. A distant thunderstorm would rattle the ground in a way she could feel it in her chest, the deep rumble of it like an elephant's call--a comfort to her.

It’s been a while since the sounds of any kind of storm could be considered calming by today’s standards. All of that old comfort was strictly for your parents’ generation. The last generation to appreciate a semi-stable climate. Tonight’s storm was no such old comfort. You’re sure if your mother were still alive she’d remind you of the good ol’ days with a story of a storm or two. The older generations just couldn’t help themselves. It’s a known pattern. In fact, the older you grow, the more you find yourself also inclined to tell a few, “back in my day…” tales of your own.

“Fuck, did the rain just pick up even more?” Chris Miller wasn’t wrong, suddenly the rain seemed to decide to come down in ice cold sheets. You look up to the peeling bathroom ceiling.  “Those leaks in the corner will probably get worse and worse. Might compromise the evidence.”

_ Tits, it’s cold, _ you think to yourself and fight a whole body shiver. Your breath was already hanging in front of your face like a ghost and your nose was beginning to feel like an ice cube had decided to call the center of your face home.

“Silver lining, at least it’ll keep Ortiz from going anywhere.” You throw out slapping Chris across the torso with the back of your nitrile encased hand before jabbing a thumb back toward the living room, where the rotting corpse of Carlos Ortiz was enjoying the current benefits that come with a freezing rain, namely preservation. You raise your eyebrows expectantly with a shit-eating grin on your face.

Chris laughs and says, “God, you’re so fucking morbid.”

“You love it.”

“No, I don’t.” He does.

“You got pics of this?” You motion to the bathroom wall covered in erratic script and the statuette on the shower floor. A repetition of the same thing, over and over: RA9. You look at the obsessive scrawl across the wall. 

Chris jabs you in the side with his elbow a little hard to catch your attention. You forgive him quickly. He’s probably just eager to get home to his wife and newborn. He nods and shows you the analysis on his datapad.

Font: CyberLife Sans. Proprietary.

Cross References: No known results for RA9.

“Well, this is some fucked up shit, buddy.” You say, pulling your gloves off. “But this isn’t related to my case.” You flex your cold fingers open and closed a few times, working out the stiffness before grabbing the offered datapad from Chris. You press your thumb to the upper righthand corner, signing off on the transfer into evidence.

“Really? It’s not?” Chris asks as you two move from the bathroom back into the space inhabited by the stench of Ortiz’ rot.

"It’s got the trappings," you say thinking about the statue in the shower. You'd be blind if you didn't recognizing the ritualistic nature of some of the elements present. "Might be the start of something, but I can't say. It is for sure not connected, though. I mean, Ortiz doesn’t fit the victim profile I'm looking at by a long shot. The M.O. here doesn't fit either. What I’m really thinking is that this scene is  _ Ben’s _ , and he  _ didn’t want to do his  _ **_own site investigation_ ** !" You all but yell the last part, so Detective Collins could hear you over the sound of the rain hammering the house. Chris laughs at the accusation, because there’s truth there. Ben Collins was notorious for bringing in others to bag and tag his scenes for him.

It was late, and you wanted to go home. You pull one jaw cracking yawn and turn away from the crime scene in front of you. Stretching your aching fingers once more, you head out the front door into the cold, but your path is interrupted by a wet, blue triangle smashing into your face, ice-cold nose first. The contact makes your eyes water.

"Oh, shit!" You curse, trying not to lose your balance. A pair of strong hands snap forward quickly to steady you. One at your elbow the other cupping your side. You rub your nose quickly with the palm of your hand, and blink the tears from your eyes.

"I apologize for startling you." The owner of the blue triangle says in a smooth voice. A smooth, new voice. 

You're familiar with all the law enforcement models, and none of the precinct's androids sound like this one. Sure enough, when you look up, it's into the brown eyes of an unfamiliar face.

"Whoa, you're new." Slips out of your mouth as you let your eyes take in the android holding you. Tall. Slim, yet broad. Brown hair. No distinctive or prominent features. Handsome. A few age wrinkles were included...very handsome. You take a step back from him and his hands drop away from your body. Brown eyes, rich as honey look down at you. This one was likely designed to look young and disarming but not too young as to indicate a lack of experience or authority. 

"You must be the prototype."

"That's correct. My name is Connor." He holds his hand out for you. Surprising. No android you knew of participated in this specific social behavior. You take it, since you're not rude. His hand is warm, another surprise. "I was sent by CyberLife to help with the investigation."

His voice was...beautiful. You're kind of mad about it, actually. It's rich and rasped, distinctive in a way that his face was not. This is the kind of voice designed to lure someone into complacency and cooperation. CyberLife did a hell of a good job with this android.

"Who're you here with, Connor?"

"He's here with me." You hear the familiar gruff voice of Hank Anderson answer your question. "Piece of shit didn't stay in the car..."

"You're here with Anderson?" You ask, a laugh bubbling through your lips as you ask the question. "With  _ Hank _ Anderson? You sure that's right?"

"Trust me, I don't like it either, but here we are." The detective in question spreads his arms out in a what-can-you-do shrug full of sarcastic delight. "Now, what's the situation here?"

"Thankfully not mine." Your eyes are still on the android apparently here with Hank. He's moved his eyes away from you, roaming the house. There's a hint of eagerness about him to get into the crime scene. You hand the datapad over to Hank before another yawn rips through you without your consent.  _ Fuck, you were tired. _

"Hey, yeah..." He agrees with dawning realization. "Why the hell were you called in for this?"

"Miller can fill you in. I’m out." You take a half step to leave before you stop yourself and look Hank in the eye. With sincerity you tell him, "It's nice to see you working, Hank." To which you receive a scoff in reply underscored by an eye roll, but you know he heard you and deep down somewhere appreciates it. "Connor, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Detective…” He says your name here and it’s just your last name, but the way he says it sounds like a caress.  _ Slow down, you thirsty ho. _ You shake your head to dispel the thought and wave goodbye, but you don't get far before you remember.

"Oh,” you snap your fingers and move back to Hank and the android, “before I forget..." the CyberLife detective’s head tilts as he listens to you and an errant lock of hair slips forward. It makes your fingers itch.

"This isn't my deal, but there is a reason I was called to the scene. Make sure you check out the bathroom." Intrigue works its way across the android’s face quick as lightning. Instantaneous.

"Huh, no lag time..." You say without thinking.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" The android asks. He leans in to catch your words.

"Oh, nothing. Don't mind me, I babble. I’m a babbler." You give the handsome android’s shoulder one good natured but awkward-as-hell knock with your fist before stepping around him to leave.

"Detective," he calls your name again, "Thank you for the tip."

Giving one last nod to the new android and saying goodbye to Ben and Chris, you drag yourself to your car and engage the auto drive feature. You lean back and glance down at your cold hands, opening and closing them a few times as the car warms up. You think you catch a faint glimpse of the blue light around the android's arm through the window as your car pulls away.

The android partnered with Hank. 

Connor. His name was Connor. 

The idea makes you let out a snort of amusement. 

Hank, partnered with an android.

Hell must've actually frozen over. Of course this would happen. What a cliché that man's life turned into.

You and Hank did group trauma therapy together three years ago. Required by work. You had lost your partner. Hank lost his son, Cole.

You remember meeting Cole a handful of times. A clumsy and lively young boy. The kind that would climb everything he could find if you let him out of your sight. The kind that would chase after the birds and make them scatter. He never wanted to hurt them, he just, as he put it, “...wanted to see how they fly.”

Once you had been left in charge of him at the station while Hank went out on a call. You’d made it a point to never diagnose your friends or their family members, but it’s a hardwired feature of being a psychologist.

You couldn’t help but note Cole was precocious, but also that he was maybe trapped within his own mind a bit. You wouldn’t say he was autistic, you’d never say that of a child that young, especially since he didn’t show any other features or symptoms of being on the spectrum. However, there was something about the way he communicated, and the way he would work through the puzzles you gave him that made clear to you the way he approached the world was unique and beyond his developmental level. 

Hank loved him and was so very proud of him. Losing Cole sent Hank down one of the darkest spirals you’d ever seen and to this day you’re not sure if he ever pulled himself out of it.

Running a hand through your hair, you grimace. Your fingers felt like popsicles dragging across your scalp.

You both hated the mandatory sessions. So, of course you bonded over your mutual flippant treatment of the whole thing.

It's not that you didn't believe in what the sessions could achieve, but there was a certain level of inability to participate when your background is in psychology. It's like when you see a movie with an actor, and they can't watch it without analyzing it. It's a disconnect that occurs for them because they know the tricks.

More often than not, when the sessions were over you and Hank would head out with a few others to a bar and drink and drink and argue and drink and laugh. You were both so disenchanted with life at the time and both so equally pissed off at the helplessness of your situations. Hank, with his son and you with Margaret...

You let your mind drift as the car tumbles itself through Detroit back to your place. Maggie Cho. Your partner of two years before she died. Killed in the line of duty while covering you. You didn't want it, and didn't ask for it. You put yourself in the line of fire in a risky gambit. Told her to stay put, to call in backup, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Which meant she ended up taking a bullet that was meant for you.

A wave of shame washes over you at the memory. You press your forehead, none-too-gently, to the glass window of your car. If the guilt tore at you then, time has worn it down to a sting, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still there.

You were working what should have been an easy op. Surveillance on a small time operation out of an android maintenance shop downtown. Illegal refurbishment, modification, and resale. The shop also had alleged connections to Zlatko Andronikov. A psychopath who had been fined and taken to court countless times for "tampering" with CyberLife IP.

They called it tampering but what he did to androids was beyond reprehensible. He continually wiped them, broke into them, and twisted their bodies. His defense was always the same, “They're mine to do with as I please.”

Take one look at his androids and you could read his damage like an open book. Control issues, identity issues, sexual deviancy, asocial tendencies...the list was a mile-long with this guy. Freud would have had a field day with Andronikov.

Through that psycho, this shop was thought to also have dealings with local Red Ice manufacturers. It would have been a big score.

To this day you think that someone tipped them off, but you never bothered to go chasing that thread. It was too painful and the further down that rabbit hole you got, the more you turned into someone you didn't like. So you didn't touch it.

Instead you dabbled in self destruction.

Promising yourself you would stay behind the wheel of your choices, you still pushed yourself a little closer to the edge every night, and Hank did the same thing. This grown man twice your age. There was one night you finally saw it. The picture you painted with Hank. It came to you when, after a bender, he tucked you into bed on his couch, patted your head and left you with a bowl to puke in if you needed it. He then stumbled off with a slurred, “G’night, Cole.”

It was the most lucid you ever felt even though you were more drunk than you had ever been.

Hank was using you. It was sweet, but it was dysfunctional. 

He wanted his kid to be alive, and you couldn't give him that, even if that's how he treated you from time to time out of his compulsive need to care. Nothing about you could give him what he wanted. So you left in the middle of the night and from then on you promised yourself you'd shape up. You did. Slowly but surely, you did. You and Hank remained friends. No awkwardness, but you definitely drew boundary lines, and he was adept enough to pick up on that. God bless Hank. He wore the uniform of a deadbeat, but was more emotionally astute than any of your old classmates.

Your car finally pulled into your garage, shaking you out of your reveries.

Hank was a good guy. The difference between you and Hank was that you got better, found some purpose, and he didn't. It was nice to see him out of a bar. In the company of an android no less.

Speaking of which...

You tipped off your shoes and slid your raincoat onto a hook in the mudroom before entering your house. Before you zonked out on your bed you compose a quick series of text messages:

Me:  
Paul, how’s the delivery?   
  
Paul:    
It went smoothly, thank ya   
  
Me:   
Parker doing ok?   
  
Paul:    
Peachy keen, Kit Kat   
  
You grumble a bit at the nick name, but annoyance is overshadowed by relief knowing that everything went well.    
  
Me:   
Hey if I told u I needed  
all the info u could get  
me on RK model droids,  
could u?

Paul:  
How much info?

Me:  
Any and all thx.

Paul:  
Say no more.

You drop your phone on its charger with a, “God bless wireless technology.” and let sleep take you. You dream of phantom hands, strong and surprisingly warm, holding you in the eye of a storm.


	2. November 6th-7th

One thing that Americans figured out quickly at the start of the climate crisis was how to protect the existence of the coffee bean. Figures. Humans couldn’t pull their heads out of their collective asses to save the Lynx or Polar Bear, but coffee? That was a priority. 

This is one of those mornings where you were grateful for the desperate engineering that went into ensuring the endurance of the coffee bean on the edge of its extinction. You pour yourself a cup of the blessed brown swill. You'll need the boost today. 

You dreamt of storms again. A frequently repeated motif from your childhood. As the planet’s climate degraded, your subconscious manifested your anxiety into dreams of tornadoes spinning all around you, hail storms raining ice down from above, pummeling your fragile body to a pulp, or wildfires and floods consuming you and everything you loved. 

Wandering out of your apartment’s little kitchen, shaking off the remnants of your nightmare that still clung to you, you pull up your notification display on your table on the off chance that Paul decided to pull an all-nighter and sure enough, he had swifted over a zipped data packet on the RK model. You run a program to unzip it and take a swig of your coffee. Five folders pop up on your display:

:Parameters  
:Platforms - locked  
:Trials - locked  
:Schematics - *&^%#  
:positronics   
:iterations 1-50 - locked  
:mind palace - locked  
:Features

_Holy shit,_ you think. Some were locked, but this is way way more than you thought he’d be able to get you. You hope Paul didn't risk too much by getting this. You've been on edge since the last close call with Rose ...

You shake your head to disrupt that train of thinking. Glancing at your watch, you realize you didn’t have as much time as you would have liked left, so you browse through the files quickly, noticing most of it is technical jargon that goes right over your head--lines and lines of code, too. Hundreds and thousands of lines of code that may as well be Egyptian hieroglyphs to you. You’re about to re-zip the data and store it on your private server when something catches your eye. 

Swiping through the folder labeled :Schematics you find blueprints and full pictures of the Connor model, serial number 313 248 317 - 51 . You peruse the contents and immediately start choking on your coffee.

“Je-he-s-hus!” You finally get out through your coughs. You stand up and move to the sink to grab a glass of cold water, pressing it to your suddenly flush face. Blinking the tears from your eyes, you move back to the table and take a good long look at the images that scandalized you so.

You don’t know why the fuck they did it, but there it was. Connor was equipped. Fully. A laugh bubbles out of you. The pictures pulled up on your table show you, unmistakably, undeniably, that the polite and sweet-faced RK800 prototype android with the distinctive voice sent by CyberLife to torment Hank was built like a male Traci. The reminder buzz from your phone grabs your attention and you down the remaining coffee before you close Paul’s package all down.

As you dash about your apartment, shoving some dry toast in your mouth on your way out, you can't help the crease that forms between your eyes when you think about what you learned. Why would CyberLife even consider outfitting a non-companion android with sexual organ bio-components? 

You pull your phone out on your way to your car, and plug it into the display at the dash once you’re seated.

“Call Paul Peters.” You drum your fingers along the dash, waiting for Paul. When he does pick up you're not surprised at all to see an extremely disheveled lump greet you. He constantly looks like a teenager that just woke up.

“y-ello.”

“Paulie. Thanks for the donuts last night.” You say, leaning forward on your seat. On the screen Paul gives two sharp nods before speaking. Acknowledging your coded thanks, letting you know he understands you’re not talking over your private line. You would have called him earlier on your private line to speak more freely, too distracted to make the time. You’re sure Paul understands.

“No problem. Hope you found ‘em tasty.”

“Was actually wondering why O’Mansley’s chose to change up, was the original not substantial enough, they had to add filling?” You answer, hoping he’ll ken your meaning. The smile that breaks across his face is accompanied with a saucy wink.

“My thoughts exactly.” _Oh he got it, alright._

“I’ll be pulling an evening shift, you can thank me for the donuts then. Also, we need to get on the same page about Parker's birthday gift.” As he says this, Paul brings up both his hands and with his fingers on each hand bunched, taps his left and right fingers together. American Sign Language. There’s more.

_Already?_ A desperate thought leaks through. That's not the code you were expecting. A lump forms in your throat, “‘Til then.” 

You close the call and sit back, breathing out a sigh, and rubbing your tired eyes. You look out your window as the car takes you through the city toward the precinct. The storm last night lacked danger from wind, but you can see the flooding that the downpour left in the streets. Broken branches from already distressed trees litter the sidewalks and sides of the road. You can see city androids in their bright uniform jumpsuits and identical faces clearing them away. You close your eyes and swallow the anxiety these images give you. 

It’s just a dream. _No, it’s not._

The cold reality that you and everyone else on this planet are likely living the last hurrah for the human race is a hard pill to swallow. When you think about it too much, you can feel that ever simmering pot of rage within you begin to boil over. You switch on some loud music, seeking a base beat to distract you from your darkening thoughts.

It won't be long until you're at the station anyway.

……….

Your day passes in a haze. More paperwork than actual police work. You had some evidence piling up that hasn’t been quite as cooperative as you would have liked. A string of gruesome murders that look more like torture than anything else has been a tricky knot to untie. Victims have all been higher profile elites, scientists and intellectuals, but with nothing overt connecting them, you can't place why or how they're being targeted. It didn't help that you were pulled off your own case last night for the Ortiz crime scene. As interesting as it was, it wasn’t related to your case.

Near the end of your shift you catch Hank returning to the station with Connor in tow. You had made your way to the break room to grab some coffee, intending on staying late to talk with Paul after your shift. As they trudge through the bullpen to Hank’s desk, both man and machine are soaked to the bone. The cold rain that had started last night had decided to hang around, periodically letting loose more freezing water. Looks like they got the brunt of it.

Neither of them look happy. Well, Hank never looks happy, but he seems especially perturbed as he yanks off his cold, wet jacket, throwing it on his chair. You can’t hear them from this distance, but you see as Hank points his finger at Connor with authority, to which Connor raises his hands a bit in acquiescence, eyes wide. He’s clearly on the receiving end of a rebuke or warning. Or both. Hank then says something quick before heading toward where you know the lockers are. 

It’s late enough that mostly everyone has left the station save for the skeleton crew of night shifters comprised mainly of uniformed officer androids. You would bet both Connor and Hank think they are alone. 

You watch as Connor follows Hank’s retreating form. Taking in his dripping form your eyes catch the blinking red halo at his temple. Only moments before it had been a cool blue, but here Connor stands, eyes downcast, shifting back and forth seeing nothing in particular. It was an expression you know you’ve worn as you take in the details of a crime scene. A puzzle solving face. The red at the halo moves rapidly--what did Paul say that meant again? Processing? Increased processing?

Whatever he was processing must be quite the load. Connor pulls something from his pocket, shifting it quickly, deftly between his fingers. A quick _whish-ping, whish-ping_ accompanies the motions, before pocketing the object again before peeling the wet jacket from his body. Watching him, you can’t help but think back to the data Paul sent you this morning. 

You look down at your coffee mug. Your hand was shaking around the handle. 

You were mainly looking for clues about Connor’s CPU, but the actual mind palace is sealed in all CyberLife androids. Black boxes and firewalls. No amount of digging can give you insight into the architecture or internal and neural structures. Based on what you can see with your own eyes and the list of capabilities on his schematics, however, the RK series androids are a game changer. Connor’s mind palace must be complex. More complex than any other series up to this point, and that makes Connor one really fucking expensive piece of tech. All of his features, all that complexity perfectly explains why he was so quick at everything. Quick to respond, quick to react. 

Quick to realize he was being watched... _oops._

His halo spun red again briefly before returning to a cool, standard blue. The expression on his face moves from surprise to something else. It’s adjacent to surprise, and warm...but maybe that’s just you projecting. 

He raises his hand in a stilted, robotic wave with a small smile. It’s endearing in its awkwardness. It gives you a bit of whiplash after your quiet observation of him. You offer a smile in return and walk closer to the desk.

“Detec-” 

“Let me stop you there,” you say, raising your hand. You ask him to call you by your first name rather than your work title. “If you’re going to be hanging around, I’d prefer you skip the formalities.”

“Fair enough.” He responds, lightly reaching up to brush that errant lock of hair back into its usual tidy appearance. 

_Shame_ , you think with a small frown. 

“My examination of the DPD roster does not show you working a night shift,” he observes, tacking your first name at the end of the statement in that warm voice of his, testing the syllables. His brown eyes dance across your form quickly, but linger on your hands as one pulls at the fraying hem of your cuff. “May I ask what you’re doing here so late?”

“Crime.” At your succinct answer, his head tilts. It reminds you of that fictional robot--Data--on that old sci-fi show you watched with your mom as a child. Your lips pull at the corners taking in his expression now. “Surely, you must know, crime never sleeps.” You add with a saucy wink, bringing the coffee up to your lips with a well-controlled cringe. Stop flirting with the android. You slap yourself mentally. 

“I was about to go see Peters downstairs, actually.”

  
“Paul Peters. Head of Internal IT and android maintenance for DPD, formerly employed at CyberLife. Assists in cyber crime investigations. Two collars. Known associates...you.” Connor recites, his eyelids flicker as he accesses the employee files that held that information for him. 

“That’s the one.” An idea strikes you, "Why don't you come with me?"

You see his eyebrows shoot up at the suggestion and he points hesitantly inward, to himself. You laugh.

"Yes, you. Come meet Paul." 

"I told Lieutenant Anderson I wouldn't go anywhere." 

"Fuck him." You throw out casually and his eyebrows shoot up a little higher.

“Look, we’ll leave him a note.” You scrawl a quick excuse on a post it note and slam it upside down onto Hank’s terminal. “Hank can call me or come find us when he comes back from his shower or wank or wherever he went." He looks unsure. "Come on. What have you got to lose?”

Connor tilts his head again, eyes taking you in consideringly. 

Considering what exactly? You wonder. 

“Okay. I'll go.” 

……….

The sound of Connor’s CyberLife issue shoes squelching along on the DPD floors would be entirely hilarious if you didn’t feel a little bad. Too distracted by your hasty invite, you completely spaced that Connor was still dripping wet. You make it down to the IT level, two floors below the detectives’ bullpen, with only a moderate amount of giggles. 

When you arrive at Paul’s office, he's mid-rant, nearly elbow deep in one of the uniformed officer 'droid's open torso. Only catching every other word he's saying, you give a few solid knocks on the door, loud enough to interrupt the stream-of-consciousness falling out of Paul's mouth that would have made a sailor blush.

“Oh my God. This is…?” Paul asks, immediately flocking to Connor as soon as he wrenches his arm free. Paul’s jaw had hit the floor sometime between when Connor shut the door, and Paul’s second orbit around him.

"I never thought I'd see an RK model in person. I mean your specs are off the charts insane complex. To say you're overqualified to be here in DPD is a massive understatement, I mean what are you running? You're processor, I mean, it must be next-next gen. complex--"

You cough, interrupting Paul’s babbling.

“Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Paul. Peters. It’s nice to meet you…?”

“Connor.” The android easily replies, again holding out his hand. Paul’s eyebrows shoot up. No doubt thinking the same thing you did about the unusual behavior before he takes Connor’s hand, rapidly shaking it in excitement. 

“I apologize for dripping in your office.” Connor says, while shaking Paul’s hand. 

“I’ve got some clothes you can borrow.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Here.” Paul throws Connor a pair of dark grey sweats and a white T-Shirt. All branded with the DPD logo. Connor catches the clothes easily. He sets them down onto the couch deliberately and removes his tie before pulling off his button up. 

Oh, boy. You and Paul both spin around very quickly to give Connor some privacy when he begins to shuck his pants. It’s reflexive. Red suffuses your cheeks at the glimpse you caught of Connor’s body. 

“God, they really did make him-” you begin, your mind grasping for something anything to talk about.

“Perfect?”

“Human, you nard.”

“Paul, thank you for the change of clothes. I will be sure to return these to you in the morning.” Connor’s amiable voice says. You both turn around and take in the android, now dressed casually, barefoot.

“Oh yeah,” Paul responds in a higher than normal voice. He coughs into his hand, to return his voice to normal, “not a problem at all.” All three of you are standing in the middle of Paul’s office for a moment with some awkwardness.

“So, Paul,” Connor is the first one to break the silence. “You maintain the androids here, correct?”

“Yes!” He says, motioning back toward the deactive one he's currently been working on. “CyberLife certified to care for all DPD androids.”

“I’ve been having some troubles with my left audio processor.” Connor reaches up to touch his head where his left processor is, behind his ear. “Damaged in an altercation earlier tonight at Eden Club. I was hoping you could take a look at it?”

“Eden Club?” You ask.

“Yes. Hank and I were investigating a death. A human. Strangled by a deviated Traci.” He explains. There's a scowl on his face and his eyes move down toward his hands as he speaks. He wears an expression like he's a little disturbed while recalling the event. 

Why would that be?

“I’m sure Hank lo-oved that.” Paul says sarcastically.

“Can you tell me something?” Connor directs this question at you, “Is an android responsible for the death of Lieutenant Anderson’s son?”

The question is so blunt it makes you and Paul both reel for a moment. “Why do you say that, Connor?”

“Something I saw in his house earlier this evening. It would explain a lot.”

“That’s…” you push out a deep sigh. “That’s not something Paul and I can answer.” You look into Connor’s eyes and you can see him thinking about what you just said. He nods his head and Paul shoots a meaningful look at you, eyebrows raised to his hairline and leads Connor to an empty diagnostic chair next to his desk. 

_Yeah,_ you think. _Connor’s different alright._

Paul begins firing off questions in quick succession. You take a seat on the sofa in the office watching the interaction with fascination hoping to learn more through observation. 

Paul watches as Connor demonstrates the tricks he knows with his quarter. You both learn this is something due to his prototype nature, sometimes Connor uses it as part of a beta stage self-testing protocol and to recalibrate his reflexes every so often. 

“I’m still new.” He says while watching the quarter balance on its edge across the backs of his knuckles.

"And who designed you?" Paul asks. The quarter stops, sliding between delicate fingers and into Connor's palm.

“I-I don't know." You both pause at the stilted response. "That information is unavailable. I cannot access it.” 

"Huh," Paul's reply comes with a glance toward you. That’s unusual. Normally the designer is public information. You know that look. He's going to do some more digging around on the CyberLife databases in the near future. Paul didn't like mysteries. Neither did you. 

Your phone beeps angrily at you. Checking it, you see that Hank has left you a message. 

Hank:  
Come back up. Leave the  
android with Paul.

The message makes you scowl. What could Hank want from you without Connor? 

“Hey Paul, I’m going-go just go check on something. I’ll be back. Still gotta discuss that thing for Parker.”

“Yeah, yeah yeah yeah...” Came Paul’s distracted reply, tinkering around with his tools, looking for the right one to help resolve the issue with Connor’s damaged audio processor. 

You turn back once you’re at the door, briefly and a quick zing flits through your stomach when you see that Connor’s brown eyes are on you. His look is focused, and sharp. A chill wracks you at his gaze. A sense of foreboding washes over you in that moment you can’t quite explain. Like something slides into place. Something big and important, like watching a storm approach on the horizon. You play it cool as Paul floats around behind him, a small magnetic tool near his left audio processor.

You smile and lift your hand in a silent goodbye and the right side of Connor’s mouth lifts a fraction in response, the sharp focus melting instantly into that softer expression you thought you imagined before.

You leave the door and walk down the hallway, thinking about the last few minutes. You didn’t get the opportunity to talk with Paul about everything you needed to, but giving him the chance to see what they were facing with Connor firsthand made up for that by a mile. You’ll talk later.

By the time you’ve made it back to the bullpen, you see a freshly showered Hank, holding a mug containing the coffee you had just brewed in the breakroom. He looks harried, tired and concerned.

“Hank, long day?” You ask him, with some concern of your own. 

He looks up at you, giving you a long, considering stare. "You could fuckin' call it that, yeah." You can tell he’s sober right now, sober but hung over. There’s a long lost lucidity in his eyes that you remember from before Cole. It makes you happy.

“Connor's weird." Hank finally says. Ah, Hank. How very like him to be so blunt.

“What kind of weird?” You ask. You know Connor's model is different, but you want Hank's experience, uninformed by yours.

“Like, deviant-weird.” 

You could agree, but instead press Hank for details. He tells you the events of the day. How he and Connor had made it to Camden, looking for the deviant that shot its owner and absconded with the man’s daughter. He describes the chase. Connor hadn’t listened to him, jumping the fence and running across the High-speed Freeway to chase the deviant and child. They escaped. 

“That doesn’t sound so deviant, Hank.” You say as evenly as possible, even as you feel your heart sinking without your permission. The idea that Connor would behave like a standard machine troubles you more than it has the right to.

“No, it wouldn’t, but you weren’t there. When I told Connor not to chase the deviant, he looked fucking conflicted, Kit…” You bit you lip hard at the nickname and push your annoyance aside as Hank trails off for a moment, remembering the interaction. “I’ve never seen an android look conflicted before, have you?”

You shake your head in response, you can taste the lie as it leaves your lips, “No.” 

“Connor saved my life earlier today.”

“What?” You ask sharply.

“I wasn’t gonna fall.” He defends himself quickly.

You look back at him aghast, "Fall?" 

"I was pushed off the edge of a building by this deviant we were chasing. I had the edge, okay? I would have been able to pull myself up if Connor had continued to chase the suspect. I would have been fine!” He insists and continues, “I don’t know how his-his shit works up there,” Hank motions to his own head with an open palm and flailing fingers, “but tell me this, if he had prioritized chasing a deviant across the fucking Freeway, why would he suddenly have chosen to save me in that moment?”

You shrug in response. Hank is right, that logic doesn't follow.

Hank continues with his explanation of their day. Telling you of other instances of strange behavior. The Tracis at the Eden Club. The way he froze just long enough that one of them was able to kick him over, dislodging the gun from his hands. He describes the way Connor stood there, in the rain listening to their defense before letting them take off.

"Wait, he let them go. Like, stood there and watched them go?" You ask. Connor's reaction before...

"Yeah, and his LED thingy was red the whole time. I don't know much about android brains but I do know a literal red flag when I see it." Hank takes another large swig of his coffee and lets out a sigh that's soul deep. "You're the one that studied psychology so, you tell me. What should I do with the fuckin' thing."

You don't like the way that question came out of Hank's mouth. It's cruel and dismissive. Hank is a lot of things, but he's not cruel or dismissive. Pain can warp someone though, and androids are quite easy to "other" these days.

You're not sure how to respond to Hank. Your private, personal stance aside, there's not much to say. Outside of the designers and basic structural information to assist with the care and maintenance of an android, there's not much public information available about how CyberLife's androids actually work. It's all trade secrets and NDAs under heavy lock and key. You're not even sure Paul could find out much about how exactly the mind palaces are built or work.

You choose your next words carefully. 

"I have noticed some odd...quirks about him, but that doesn't mean that he's a deviant, Hank." You press your thumb to the space between your eyebrows and mull over your next words weighing them before speaking. You trust Hank. You think about the last delivery you had before letting your chosen words live your lips, "and if he was, would that really be so bad?" 

You can feel Hank tense at your words but you continue rubbing the space between your eyebrows, looking at Hank’s feet. What you’re about to say is dangerous, but you can feel them pushing their way past your lips despite that knowledge, “I just wonder if maybe we’re not looking at all this from the right side.” You add quietly, looking into Hanks’ blue eyes.

You can see his disbelief at your words, his mouth opens as his brows draw together, but before Hank can answer, you get an incoming message, official. It’s from Fowler.

"Oh, shit! There's been another murder that fits my M.O. Hank, I have to go." You say as you bustle towards your desk. "But listen Hank, just promise me you’ll think about what I’m saying.” Hank gives you an affirmative nod as you gather your stuff before heading to the front door. “Also, you better get down there before Paul elopes with your partner. I’ve never seen that man more in love.”

_“Jesus Christ.”_ Comes Hank’s reply. You laugh and leave the station, hoping that Hank will heed your advice. You tipped your hand just then, and you hope to God you made the right call. As you head out, you shoot Paul a text, apologizing for leaving before you can talk business, and pray the scene you've just been called to will help you close your case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute. Please gimme yo' thoughts, if'n ya want. I love feedback. It sustains me


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